


Fine

by XxFandomTrashxX



Series: The Songs of Our Past Weigh a Heavy Toll On Our Future [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alkaline Trio, Angst, Based on an Alkaline Trio song, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Gen, Mary’s dead, Most characters are only mentioned, Part one is death, Part two is John finding out, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction, Past Drug Use, Post-Reichenbach, Songfic, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxFandomTrashxX/pseuds/XxFandomTrashxX
Summary: “It’s been over three months since Mary died and John left him. He remembers their last minutes together like it was yesterday, John holding a gun to his head and threatening him after he finally set Mary’s corpse on the ground.”OK PLEASE DONT READ IF YOU’RE TRIGGERED BY ANYTHING MENTIONED IN THE TAGS
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Songs of Our Past Weigh a Heavy Toll On Our Future [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1332467
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Fine

Sherlock sits at his desk, the sound of rain pounding against the window comforting to a degree. In his right hand he holds a syringe filled with a clear liquid, a yellow tint shading it slightly. His hand shakes as he holds the drug, eyes losing focus too quickly for him to safely and precisely administer the chemical into his bloodstream, he growls, throwing the glass and metal object across the room, it shatters against the wall, shards falling to the ground as the liquid drips down the vertical surface. Sherlock moves from the table over to the couch, barely able to keep himself up long enough to make it over to the couch, he all but falls onto it, diving headfirst into the cushions. After lying in that position for almost an hour, he flips onto his back, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniel’s sitting on the ground, he fumbles with the lid, eventually working it off and bringing the glass to his lips, he makes a small noise as the cold glass hits his heated lips, he downs a quarter of the bottle in one go, loving the burn it leaves in its wake. A tremor wracks his body, muscles contracting and spasming as a wave of nausea hits him, the bottle sloping from his hand and falling to the ground, he leans over the edge of the couch, retching into the bucket Miss Hudson has brought him the night prior due to her increasing worry of his health. He moves back to lie down again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the thought of the alcohol gone from his hazy mind.

It’s been over three months since Mary died and John left him. He remembers their last minutes together like it was yesterday, John holding a gun to his head and threatening him after he finally set Mary’s corpse on the ground. Blood coated his body, his face was contorted from crying and the disgust and anger he felt. He threatened Sherlock, threatening his life if they ever were to meet again, saying he’d shoot him if he ever so much as saw his face.

Sherlock saw the fury, the pain, the honesty in John’s eyes as he said that, the emotions only growing stronger by the second, John telling him to leave before he couldn’t stop himself from pulling the trigger, something Sherlock knew he’d to, and a request- no, a demand he obeyed.

Sherlock knows it wasn’t his fault, Mary took the bullet for him, but the emotions John showed that night, it opened Sherlock’s eyes, that no matter what someone does, you can always find a way to forgive them, well, almost everything. Since that night, he hasn’t slept for long unless he drugged himself or drank himself into essentially a coma. He hasn’t picked up the computer for almost two weeks. All he has done is gone out to the store to get more booze, stopping by a dealer on the way back before returning to his flat, either his bedroom or living room. He hasn’t touched a file, nor spoken to Lestrade, nor Mycroft, Molly, Irene... he completely isolated himself, responding to messages on the off chance he even noticed, claiming to have been injured or something of the likeness and dodging any other questions. It wasn’t too long before people started poking their noses where they didn’t belong and ventured to 221 B to figure out what was really happening, but by what one would call the grace of God, he was able to wait them out, locking his doors and staying in his room until they left. 

Admittedly, when John first left, he could handle it, tending to cases as usual, but in the third month, he snapped, the behaviors he let take over his life so long ago coming back and consuming it once more, destroying the life Sherlock had built, his mind palace now a nightmare, unorganized and haunted by ghosts of his memories. He could keep it under wraps until he was alone until around two weeks ago, when he completely stopped going out, Miss Hudson trying her damnedest to keep the poor bastard alive.

When week three rolls around, Sherlock is an absolute mess, having not slept since his break, his organs are beginning to shut down, the drugs and booze only quickening the process. He knows this, God, he knows this, and he knows what he has to do next.

He takes the pistol John had used to shoot the cabbie, checking it as best he can to make sure the gun is clean, he loads it with trembling hands.

All the times he lied, all the times he said ‘I’m fine’ to those that were genuinely worried, those that loved and cared about him, all the missed time he had, all the words he could have said, it all flashes through his mind. He could’ve led a better life. He could have saved John Watson. He could have learned to love. But he didn’t. 

The raises the gun to rest beneath his chin, swallowing thickly as his throat dries, he pulls back the hammer, pulling the trigger, in his last moments, he realizes he did love and that’s the reason this happened, John Hamish Watson is the reason for most ever in his life, the reason he lived, and the reason why he’s now dying. The giddiness he felt when he was working cases with John, the regret when Mary hit the ground... it wasn’t because of the chase, nor the adrenaline, nor the pain of Mary’s death. No, it was being able to be close to his best friend, his journalist, John Watson, and the feeling in the moments he watched Mary fall to the ground, it wasn’t regret for letting one more person die, it was regret that he let his best friend down, the only person he opened up to, and the one person he really and truly loved. And in his last moments, Sherlock Holmes made peace with this, pulling the trigger as a small smile appeared on his face, pain fading and joy filling him, the haze lifted before it all went black.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so, I have decided that I’m going to do another song fic as John’s reaction because I was listening to a song and though that it would be great as a base for how he felt after the fact


End file.
